[ SREE SREE THAKUR ANUKUL CHANDRA REPLIES TO QUESTING AMERICANS ON VITAL AND CONTROVERSIAL ISSUES OF THEIR TIMES ]
RAY HAUSERMAN
                                                         
INTRODUCTION

"When I think of Christ, I feel existence is good and beautiful,' Thakur observed shortly after I had been introduced to him. "just see: His words, His eyes, His hair — all are~so beautiful! That's why I think we too should be that way - our clothing pure and clean, our face, our hair, our behaviour, our body — our laughter and our tears ... all should be honey, heavenly."
I had heard of Thakur shortly after World War II had ended. In a land teeming with holy men, religious quacks and quaint beliefs, he seemed to stand out like a beacon of light and hope. I made the arduous journey from Calcutta to his village home 140 miles north.

"Do you believe in Christ?" I asked in bewilderment. His reply erupted with stark simplicity. "If Christ were alive today, I would be the first to become His disciple!" That made the gulf in background between this 58 year old Bengali Brahmin Hindu and myself, a 23 year old American Christian, seem almost non-existent.
The late afternoon sun made the sprinkling of white in his closely clipped hair and moustache turn a soft bronze. His full lips parted in a smile as open and guileless as a child. Combining with his uninhibited intimacy, it made me begin to feel I had known him for a long time. In fact I almost forgot how far away in miles and "milieu" I was from our American Field Service Club in Calcutta. As he shifted his bulky body on the low wooden bedstead to face me directly, I became aware of a natural grace in his movement, a strength and majesty in his features.
"I feel Christ is the Emperor — beggar of love." Thakur's large dark eyes glowed with boyish admiration. "He begged for it from fishermen, tax collectors... even from Mary Magdalene."

He may have been born two millennia too late to become Christ's disciple. Yet I discovered that Thakur's reckless effort over the years to apply this criterion of wealth has attracted almost as much abuse as approbation; has created defamers as well as ardent admirers. Nothing however, seems to tarnish his belief that this man-standard is as valid and practical in the twentieth century as it had been in the first.

When I met him, he had already become to many in eastern India something of a living legend. Variously recognized for his medical insight, educational ideas or scientific suggestions, he had in recent years acquired considerable reputation as a natural-born psycho-therapist and spiritual adviser. Besides sincere seekers after truth, political and social leaders, educationists, scientists and industrialists have taken his counsel. Drunkards, political terrorists, prostitutes and thieves have sought his shelter. The fact that none are refused regardless of the repercussions had made him one of the most remarkable and controversial figures in modern India. This tenacious pursuit of the social outcast had, at times, made his closest friends and well-wishers question his choice of human currency.
In 1935, Hem Kabi came to see him on one of Thakur's infrequent visits to Calcutta. Though Hem's genius for spontaneous song and poetry was highly regarded, his drunken arrogance was notorious. All attempts at reformation having failed, a mutual friend had coaxed the reluctant poet into this meeting. When Hem staggered arrogantly into the room, Thakur asked the attendant to bring a bottle of whiskey, and apparently indifferent to his tipsy guest, he returned to his discussion with others. The befuddled poet took his seat adjacent to Thakur, accepted the bottle flippantly and noisily began drinking. Unruffled Thakur calmly continued his conversation until Hem arose and announced loudly, "You know, I like you Thakur. You're the first man that hasn't told me to stop drinking."

Thakur's arms shot up in horror, "No, no, Hem! Why should you stop? But I like you, and if you find it convenient, I hope you'll come see me again."
Hem did. The same scene was repeated the next day and the next. When Thakur was preparing to return to his village, he invited the poet to be his guest there.
Shortly thereafter Hem appeared in the village. Thakur arranged for accommodation for his guest. Hospitably, he also saw to it that a daily bottle of whiskey was brought from the neighbouring town of Pabna and handed to the poet in his presence. The poet's visit lengthened from days into weeks. Rumours were rife in Pabna that Thakur Anukul Chandra now supplied liquor to all his friends. As the weeks stretched into months some of Thakur's closest friends and associates began expressing reservations as tc the nature and extended period of
Thakur's hospitality. He held his own counsel. That autumn his motive became self-explanatory.

The early morning arrivals that day were surprised to find Thakur's immaculate white clothes covered in odorous vomit. He was still sitting where they had left him the night before. Inscrutably shrugging off all suggestions that he bathe and change, he handled the usual routine of problems, patients and personal advice with his normal imperturbability. Just before loon, the poet arrived, bathed and looking fresh. A glance at Thakur's   condition   immediately    moved   Hem    into   action. Furiously he turned on the bystanders.
"What're all of you people just standing around for? You too busy worshipping him, you can't get him some clean clothes?" Nobody spoke. His eyes flashed toward Thakur for support.
“Hem," Thakur's voice was soft, "Don't you remember?"
"Remember what?"
"Last night."

A tinge of uncertainty crept into the poet's voice,
"Last night, what?"
"Oh, just when I was going to bed, you came here and fell asleep in my lap ... " Thakur pointed to the only unsoiled area on his cloth, ". . . you were sick . . . probably something' you ate . . ." Thakur's demeanour was transparently innocent. The poet's face was frozen in horror. He fell on his knees sobbing.
"Hem, should I go and take my bath?" Thakur queried gently.
"Thakur ..." the poet's tormented eyes appealed pathetically to his benefactor ".. . Thakur... will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you for what? You didn't do anything wrong." Thakur's voice was reassuring, without reproach, "You were sick, that's all"."
The poet remained kneeling. His anguished sobs slowly subsided. "Hem," again Thakur tenderly suggested, "I'll go and take my bath while you go to the dispensary and get some medicine for your stomach."
Hem stood up unsteadily and was led toward the dispensary.
 Thakur arose. It was the first time he had moved in twelve hours. Hem failed to appear that evening. He was sent for and Thakur insisted that the poet accept his bottle of whiskey. For several moments Hem's eyes moved restlessly back and forth from the bottle to Thakur. Abruptly his hesitation vanished. Quickly taking the bottle, he walked resolutely to the nearby river bank and threw it into the muddy, swirling current.

   As he returned to Thakur and the watching group, a smile appeared on his face. "Why waste your money anymore, Thakur?" he asked quietly. Almost in the same breath his voice  rang out in extemporaneous song about the man he liked because he never told him to stop drinking.
Thakur's subtle and frequently unorthodox methods are the main-source of confusion to friend and calumny by foe. The sight of the diseased, demented and undeserving all finding hope and shelter with him could be disturbing at times, even unnerving. To religious thrill-seekers particularly, who often associate love only v/ith the good and the beautiful, this aspect remained Thakur's greatest liability.

Occasionally, friends had sought to eliminate some of the more   obvious   anti-social   elements   from   the  heterogeneous, unwieldy   family  that had grown around him. After having patiently listened to the plans for streamlining the community into an efficient organization, Thakur inevitably concluded, "Still I believe that any organization, plan or movement that ignores or neglects a single individual betrays existence just that much." I his almost universal love, practically applied, is held by many to be Thakur's greatest asset.
He prefers that those who remain with him also practise this sense of unlimited responsibility in their own lives rather than merely preaching about it in his. If opportunity presents itself he doesn't hesitate to indicate his preference.
A few of us from the World War II generation who had chosen to remain with him, periodically sallied forth into the rural and urban areas of India to tell about our rinsed and renovated 'faith In the possibilities of men truly becoming assets of one another. Such  meetings can easily beguile one into a feeling that the temporary fervour  is real faith  and the transient emotion a permanent transformation.

Thakur listened dispassionately to an enthusiastic account of one such tour, then innocently suggested we keep a recently arrived singer with us. Confident in our own capacity to storm the walls of the kingdom unaided, we reluctantly agreed. In two days our self-esteem had been reinforced. We found the singer to be, not oniy ar. inveterate liar, but a petty thief as well. He was dismissed from our groups forthwith.

"Where's the singer?" Thakur artlessly inquired that evening.
"We got rid of him," we said matter-of-factly. The trace of a frown crossed Thakur's brow, "he turned out to be a liar and a thief, Thakur." We hastily explained.
"Yet only a few days ago you told me you could turn the whole world into a place of brotherhood and love ..." his eyes gripped ours relentlessly, ". . . and you can't adjust an individual singer?" ... "Don't you feel that's strange?"
"But, Thakur ... " desperately we grasped for a straw, ".. . survival of the fittest is..."

"... first make the unfit fit," Thakur gently intervened, "then only can you survive," His voice became firm. "Go now, find him and keep him with you."
"He's the hardest boss and yet the softest," an American professor observed after witnessing the departure of a grateful, well-to-do Philadelphian, who having recovered considerably from his alcoholism, had asked Thakur what gift he'd like from America.

"I don't want anything," Thakur promptly replied. His eyes glistened with unabashed yearning. "If I can only feel that George is healthy in body and mind, I'll feel I am the richest man in the world."
Shortly afterwards, the Philadelphian confided, "You know, this is the first time I'm not afraid. Thakur may be a hero, a fool or a saint, frankly 1 don't ca:e. I only know I now have one place in the world where I'll find shelter even if I have nothing .... and he'll take me in, not as a pious act of philanthropy, but as a personal necessity."

Thakur still came in for criticism in spite of the thousands of positive results from his uncalculating acceptance of all. A former .idvocate general of one Indian state finally decided that Thakur seemed to see every single person as a living universe. He had earlier been professionally involved with some people associated with Thakur; who had been accused in a criminal case. This had inspired the official to challenge Thakur as to why he supported evil.
"I never support evil, but often shelter it," Thakur explained, |'l guess they are the foolish sons of a foolish father. I keep thinking that someday they will change." Thakur's baffling humility seemed to unwittingly soothe the critic and oft-times rubbed some of the rust from the faith of the cynic.
Unlike many Indian saints, Thakur's explanations are simple, pragmatic and always related to practical activity. He has little time  for other worldly mysticism that doesn't help a man achieve a more meaningful and productive life within his own immediate environment and  through his own traditional faith. This odd combination of practical religion, visionary idealism and intuitive insight crystallizes around his basic belief that in making men able, efficient and responsible, affluence can be brought to all.

When communal riots engulfed India in 1946-47, the thriving community where I had first met Thakur and which had been described by a Chief Minister of Assam as the finest example of rural reconstruction in India, had to be abandoned. A 3 million dollar establishment was lost.

By ordinary standards, Thakur had become a bankrupt destitute. By his, he was still a man of substance, albeit, the hundreds of men, women and children who accompanied him 300 miles west to Deoghar, Bihar were as destitute as he.
"What have you lost?" Thakur constantly insisted, "everything, land, homes, business — all were built with our efficiency and we haven't lost that. With it, we shall build again!"

     As his doubtful human treasury grew into thousands, Thakur's determination became more contagious. His confidence was infectious. Helpless men, women and children raised their heads. . . . and their hopes. Today, thousands of refugees who stand on their own feet without seeking help from government is evidence in support of Thakur's fiscal policy, though his funds were homeless, penniless and apparently, helpless people.
He would not consider himself a Christian in any unique sense. Yet to many Americans, Thakur exhibited and advocated a sense of responsibility toward the environment that is more often associated with Christian concepts of social obligation than with some of the Hindu notions of escape from this unreal world into a communion with some ultimate reality.
How does he feel about a heavenly "nirvana" that ignores the material world as illusion?

"Don't try to enjoy your life in heaven after demise only," Thakur pleads, "but in communion with your Lord, strive to bring that heaven on earth through faith, love and charity with an enlivening breeze of sympathy, service and nurture. Surely, this shall banish destitution, depravity and helplessness forever. This alone can bring unity in variety and it is my conviction that this is the essence of growth  toward peace on earth and good-will towards men."
In 1956, Thakur had a slight stroke which incapacitated him physically for several months. Heart specialists prescribed complete rest. Concerned associates made rigid rules for visitors. Barricades to protect him shattered the homely informality of former times. Within weeks, however, he began calling to people standing behind the barricades to come and see 'him. Then sheepishly, he turned to the worried guardians and apologized, "I'm afraid, the only wealth I know is man . . . and may be it's my only medicine, too."
Thakur remained accessible to all comers at almost all hours.He normally spent more than fourteen hours a day inspiring, consulting and advising. Except for a few hours rest in the afternoon and six hours sleep at night, he lived literally in a gold fish bowl with men — diseased, distraught and searching men — his constant companion and, till he left the world in January, 1969, his only wealth.